Loaf of bread or sheep's
head, rubber nubbed
for traction on flatnesses

On the chine of the first white inkling of the winter
The Ravenmaster wraps his limbs in combs of wind.

It is November; the tower closes down

On her way to the Louisiana State Penitentiary, Sister Mary Aloysius 
Drove past many signs: Earthworms Here. Have Many Rabbit. Calicos 
In Burlap Sacks for Free. There were wooden crosses, some upsided

Winter was the ravaging in the scarified
Ghost garden, a freak of letters crossing down a rare

Path bleak with poplars. The yew were a crewel

I was not ready for your form to be cold
Ever. Even in life

You did not inhabit, necessarily, a form,

The orchard grew excellent,
Good mass of apples assembling, one angel burned, looped
On the wire fence, in a bowl of gold most satisfactory.

“Have a lot of folks over for dinner and walk”
Thus spoke Gertrude Stein bellyaching about Manhood.

Fashionable windiness to gear sworn statements into hungry keys

Back at San Francisco Greyhound, leaning / and I’m not thinking or yearning / I’m just leaning.